


The Middle: Before We Had Begun

by threemeows



Series: There's Magic in Details [2]
Category: To All the Boys I've Loved Before (Movies), To All the Boys I've Loved Before Series - Jenny Han
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:01:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29736327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threemeows/pseuds/threemeows
Summary: I was in the middle before I knew I had begun. – Jane Austen, Pride and PrejudiceMissing scenes from the third movie - from the year after Lara Jean and Peter get back together until they go to college. Picks up where The Beginning: Dreadful Little Things left off.
Relationships: Peter Kavinsky & Lara Jean Song-Covey, Peter Kavinsky/Lara Jean Song-Covey
Series: There's Magic in Details [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2185527
Comments: 54
Kudos: 106





	1. The Pride and the Furious

**Author's Note:**

> Title of the work is from Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. Title of that chapter is a play on Pride and Prejudice and The Fast and the Furious.
> 
> Mild spoilers for the Pride and Prejudice movie(s) which ... ok, this work is how old, you should know the basic plot ... and The Fast and the Furious franchise.

“Let’s Rock Paper Scissors for it.”

“No, we are not doing Rock Paper Scissors for it, we started it already -”

“You’re just afraid you’ll lose,” Peter says, leaning towards her in challenge. 

Lara Jean scowls at him and raises her fist.  
  


*

  
“So, when does this Han guy show up?” Lara Jean asks grumpily, sipping on her Coke, ten minutes into the first _The Fast and the Furious_ movie.   
  


“Um ... not until the third movie.” Peter winces. He doesn’t want to mention what ultimately happens to Han, either.   
  


She glares at him. “Wait! You lied!”  
  


“I never lied. What are you -”  
  


“You said he’s in the movie!”  
  


“I never said _which_ movie he’s in! Trust me. Just watch this, you’ll like it. It’s full of mushy stuff. Just, you know, between the car racing.”  
  


She sighs, and leans back against his chest. They’re sitting on the floor of his living room, and she’s between his legs, and they’re both drowsy and content. It’s something that just a week ago he’d thought he’d never get back. It’s a bit weird to fall back into this rhythm of things so easily – but a good weird.  
  


*  
  


“Okay ... that wasn’t so bad. Brian and Mia . . . ” Lara Jean sighs, dreamily. “And Dom and Letty!”  
  


“See?” He blows a raspberry at the juncture between her throat and shoulder and she giggles, squirms away and tosses a handful of popcorn in his face. “Meanie!”  
  


“Come on,” she says, popping the DVD out of his laptop. “It’s time to exchange horsepower for horse drawn carriages. And! We’re restarting from the beginning.”  
  


He shrugs and lies down on the couch. She sits down and he puts his head in her lap. “Just don’t get popcorn crumbs on me.”  
  


“I wouldn’t dare.” She plays with his hair as they watch. Okay - this movie isn’t so bad. Could be the way she’s playing with his hair – soothing, quiet. Lulling. But the movie’s good. Especially that Darcy guy. He’s funny. That line about not dancing?   
  


Classic.   
  


*  
  


“LJ?”  
  


“Yeah?” Lara Jean barely looks up from the screen. The Bennett sisters have met George Wickham in town - they’ve all run into Darcy and Bingley on their way back home. Significant looks are being exchanged. It’s all rather charged. It always is when two rivals meet and the heroine -   
  


“Did you ever hook up with McClaren?”  
  


“Uh - what?” She takes his fingers out of his hair, shocked.   
  


“Just a question.” He turns around to look up at her. He’s not angry or upset. More curious. Intent.

  
She reaches over to pause the laptop. Her face feels hot. She fumbles before saying, “I’m not answering that.”  
  


He runs his tongue over his teeth, chews on the inside of his cheek – like he’s making a decision. Finally he says, simply, “Okay.” He turns on his side again, reaches over to hit play.   
  


The movie starts up again. Bothered, restless, Lara Jean lasts all of one minute before she leans over and hits pause. “So, like - that’s not very fair.”  
  


Peter sighs. “Oh, here we go.” He pushes off of her and sits up. “I said okay.”  
  


Lara Jean folds a leg underneath her. “Yeah, but you never told me how many times you’ve had sex with Gen.”  
  


He spreads his hands, confused. “I thought you guys were cool now.”  
  


Huh? That’s not it. “We are.” His eyebrows shoot up skeptically. “No, we are. What I’m not cool with is - ” She takes a deep breath and says, trying desperately to articulate it without embarrassment, “Feeling like I’m ... inadequate.”  
  


He pauses, then huffs out, indignant, “You think _I_ am?”  
  


Oh. Lara Jean picks at her nails. She can feel the sense of being turned upside down again - that awful feeling she used to get earlier, when her insecurities took over or when they started to fight - and she deliberately pushes past it because ... because they’re not like that anymore. 

So she stares at a spot on the rug. “We – John Ambrose and I – we've kissed.” In her periphery, she sees him tense a little, but she crosses her arms – looks him deliberately in the eye. “Your turn.”  
  


Now, it _is_ his turn to not meet her gaze. He leans his elbows onto his knees, pulls at his ear – a nervous tic. “I lost count.” She can literally feel the blood drain away from her body. _Oh, god._ But then Peter says, quickly, “But - it’s not like you think? I lost count because it didn’t ... It didn’t happen very often. And when we did do it, it wasn’t like – like anything special.” He rubs his hands, looking at them rather than her. “I dunno, maybe I wasn’t very . . . uh, _good_ at it.”  
  


She scratches her temple, embarrassed, but mostly because he seems embarrassed. It’s good to know that her unconscious fears are unfounded, but at the same time it’s a little odd to see him this way. She always thought of Peter as proud and confident, easygoing. Seeing him act almost ashamed is something new.  
  


So she leans over and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek - grabs his hand. As she plays with his fingers, she says, speaking more to his knuckles than him, “Well ... um ... when I finally decide to go - you know, base jumping - then ... I will be glad that my partner will be there with me. You know?” She swallows. “I’m sure he’d be – um, good at it.”  
  


There’s a long moment where she’s only trailing her finger over the line of his knuckle, feather light - her hand trembles. Then he says, thickly, “Um – that sounds . . . very . . . nice.”  
  


She glances up at him through her lashes, flushing – he’s looking at their hands too. But then she remembers something. “Hey. What about last year’s graduation party? Steve Bledell’s?”  
  


“What about it?” She studies his face. He genuinely doesn’t seem to know.   
  


“Last year’s graduation party - they said you and Gen - well - in the basement -”  
  


His eyebrows practically shoot off of his forehead, and he lets go of her hand. “What?! Hell, no. Who said that? Who’s ‘they’?”  
  


“It was going around. I don’t remember.” She honestly doesn’t - it was just one of those things people said. Peter makes a face, angry, and she says, “I’m sorry I said anything.”  
  


“Hey,” he says, realizing - he grabs her hand again. “No. I’m not mad at you. I’m just wondering how the hell that rumor got started. Gen got so wasted that night I had to sneak her back home. We didn’t do anything.”  
  


That makes her stomach twist uncomfortably - that someone would say something about Gen, during that kind of moment. It makes her think about the ride home from the ski lodge - the comments on that video.   
  


All of a sudden, she flings herself at him, wraps her arms around his waist and holds on tight. “It was only once,” she mumbles. “A-and it was right before you came to get me.” She squeezes him tightly, remembering. “He kissed me and I thought it was going to be some magic moment. Like how I thought it would be when I was eleven. But it just made me think - all I could think about was y-you.” She shakes her head. “I treated him so awfully.”  
  


“Hey. Hey come on.” He pats her hair until she dares to look up. “As an expert on having my heart broken by Lara Jean Song Covey, I can definitely say it must’ve sucked.” She chokes out a weepy, wry little laugh. Trust Peter to wring a giggle from her in a moment like this. “But that’s not your fault. And you’re definitely not alone in the treating other people like shit department.”  
  


The way he grumbles out the last part makes her sit up. “You don’t treat other people like shit,” she says, softly.   
  


“Kinda did.” He shakes his head. “I came up this the stupid fake dating thing, just to make Gen mad. I knew she’d be pissed. Not just because I was dating someone else. But because I was dating you.”  
  


She doesn’t know what to say to that, to feel. Mad at being used? Because that’s basically what he just admitted. But then again, she was using him, too. Mad on behalf of Gen? She doesn’t really have a right to be. They’re cool with each other now - they even nod at each in class or the hallways - but they’re not _friend_ friends.   
  


But then Peter says something that totally takes her by surprise - “She always knew I thought you were cute.”  
  


Her face heats, and she smiles until her cheeks hurt. “You big dummy,” she says, not without affection, and they both have a giggle, and when they’re finally both calm she restarts the movie and cuddles against his side.   
  


Maybe she’ll never get over feeling guilty about how things went down between herself and John Ambrose. Maybe Peter will never get over his guilt over Gen. But maybe they’re not supposed to.  
  


*  
  


“Okay, look this next version is what – four hours long? You owe me two more _Fast_ films before we start this one.”  
  


“Oh, fine,” Lara Jean says, with exaggerated derision, which makes him grin because now he knows she really likes them.   
  


Or at least until _Tokyo Drift_. Then he might be a dead man. 

  
He drops her off at home, walks her to the door. Not for the first time, it occurs to him that this is their first movie night since getting back together. Even though the tension of the last few weeks has disappeared, leaving a sense of settled calm in its wake in his chest, he still wants to ask. Needs to. “We good?” he murmurs, just before he kisses her goodnight.  
  


She presses back against him, sweet and light, and somehow that’s even more devastating than when she jumped his bones on the track – or when she told him she loved him for the first time, in the middle of a snowstorm, and they both clung to each other like they were the last safety rings on earth.

“Yes,” she murmurs, fingers gentle in his hair, smile wide against his. “We’re good.”  
  


-tbc-


	2. Laid Upon the Children

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from the Merchant of Venice

“Who taught you how to bake?”

She shrugs – holds up the measuring cup, levels the sugar off with her finger. Dumps the rest into the mixing bowl. Now it’s the brown sugar’s turn. She’s careful, but makes a mess trying to pack the brown sugar into the cup just so. He’s noticed that – the carefully controlled chaos, in these baking sessions. One cracked egg or spilled milk away from an all-out tornado. “Myself. Does Owen like walnuts?”

“Yeah.”

“Pantry cupboard.” Covey screws her mouth to the side, looks up at the ceiling. “Mmm – bottom left.”

Peter hops off the kitchen island, ducks his head into the pantry. It’s just where she said it was. “Thought you would’ve said your mom,” he says. “How much?”

“How walnut-y does he like it?”

“Not very.” Which is a lie, because this may be his brother’s birthday cookies, but it’s not like he’s _not_ gonna pinch some. Lara Jean glares at him knowingly. “How much then?”

“One cup,” she says, turning back to add the softened butter sticks. “You’ll need to chop ‘em.”

He grabs a butcher knife and chopping board from the counter. As he works, she says, over the whir of the mixer, “She taught me the basics. You know. Soften versus melted butter. Mix your dry ingredients and your soft ingredients separately, then add together. That kind of stuff.” No, he didn’t know. “I didn’t start doing it on my own, and getting good, until . . . after.”

He wonders what that first baking session alone was like – what she made. He can guess. Concentrating, over-careful on chopping the walnuts, he asks, lowly, “How did it . . .?” and lets the question hang, because somehow saying “happen” sounds so _weird._ Like an ordinary, every day thing. Instead of –

Lara Jean takes a spatula – wipes off the edges of the bowl. “Um – she . . .” She shuts off the mixer and her fingers tap the flour tin for a moment, anxious. “She fell. She was mopping the kitchen floor. We weren’t even around at the time, we were at school. But she got up right away, she was fine. She didn’t even mention it when we came home. It’s what doctors call a lucid moment? But then later, she said she was going to lie down, she didn’t feel so good, and uh . . .” She swallows, and whips out the measuring cup again. “She said to look after Kitty.” She starts measuring out the flour into another bowl. “Margot found her later. Told me to keep Kitty in her room. And uh, she called 911. But it was too late.” The second cup she dumps into the bowl but misses – half of it gets all over the counter. “Shit!”

“Here.” Peter tosses her a dishtowel. Lara Jean sighs, and puts all the flour back into the tin. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she murmurs. She takes the dishtowel and starts wiping up the spilled flour. He puts a hand on the small of her back, gentle – kisses the top of her head. She stills, and says, “Hey, does Owen like snicker doodles?”

He snickers into her hair. “Hey – hey, come here.”

“What?” she asks, but follows – winds her arms around his waist, but keeps her floured hands off his back.

“You don’t have to make snicker doodles.”

She lays her cheek against his chest. “What if I want to make snicker doodles?”

“Then make snicker doodles. But I’m just saying, you don’t _have_ to make them. Okay?”

She looks up, and he wonders if she gets what he’s trying to tell her – but then she smiles, maybe a bit embarrassed, maybe a bit relieved. He has a feeling that there still might be a random snicker doodle tray here and there yet to come. But that’s okay. He’ll deal.

They’re delicious, after all.

*

It takes forever, but Peter finally finds Lara Jean in one of the bedrooms upstairs. She’s on the phone, pacing.

“Come on, Chris, will you just come over? Please?” she begs, as he shuts the door behind him. “I swear to god, he’s not here!” Peter lifts his eyebrows. Trevor is definitely here. He’s playing flip cup with Greg right now. “Look, I just need a wingman. Woman. Girl. Whatever . . . Ugh.” She hangs up.

“No deal?” Peter says, flopping onto the guest bed.

“Nope.” She lies down next to him, shoulder to shoulder.

He glances at her. “You know the definition of wingman, right?”

“Your pal, your buddy, your friend?”

“Yeah, but also, the wingman is supposed to go and help get you your . . .” He gestures with his hands.

“Your . . .?”

Peter laughs. God, for someone who has watched every romcom in the history of the world, she can be so innocent sometimes. “You don’t need a wingman, because you already _have_ me.”

“So . . . you’re my wingman?” Covey asks, brows quirked in confusion.

“No, I mean, you already ‘got me.’ As in, if Chris was your wingman, she’d go and get me _for_ you.”

“Ohhhh.” Lara Jean taps her pursed lips, contemplative. “Well, then, I guess I need her here so I can be _her_ wingman.”

Peter laughs again. She pushes up on an elbow and looks down at him. “Can’t you just get him to like, apologize?”

“He didn’t do anything wrong! _She’s_ the one who – ” Peter stops. “Gah, we’re doing it.”

“Doing what?”

“Trevor said the entire reason they didn’t tell us about them was this whole – I dunno – meddling thing – ”

“Meddling?” she exclaims, affronted. “They think _we_ meddle?”

“Right, we don’t!” Peter insists, nodding along. “But anyway, they didn’t want to make things weird, like, between them and us, and also, between you and me – so – yeah. We’re about to make things weird, so let’s . . . not? Okay?”

“Ugh, you are _no_ fun,” Lara Jean says, flopping down, but this time onto his chest. He starts to play with her hair. Downstairs, the bass of the music thumps along, the chatter an obvious din. Someone is screaming with laughter – high and annoying.

“You still need a minute?” he asks, quietly.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, sleepy. It’ll be curfew soon, and he’ll have to take her back. But he’s learned that when she does come out with him to these things, she sometimes needs a break.

He nudges her. “Hey, don’t fall asleep.”

“Mmph.”

“Don’t make me tickle you.”

She sits up, instantly alert – although she yawns. He chuckles, and she jumps off the bed – holds out her hand. When she helps pull him up, he deliberately stumbles into her, so that she laughs and has no choice to put her arms around his waist. “Here,” she says, and stands on his feet, and they sway together for a little bit.

“Did Owen like the cookies?” she asks, after a moment.

“Yeah. Although he bitched about why they weren’t Oreo stuffed cupcakes.”

“Ohhh you should have said. I would’ve made them.”

“Forget it, the kid got like ten Xbox games, he can get what he’s given,” Peter says, as she giggles. Then he sobers, because he remembers what set Owen off in the first place.

“What is it?”

He stops swaying. It’s weird how she can tell something’s wrong when she didn’t even see his face. “Nah, it’s nothing – he was just a little pissed off because, uh, Dad didn’t even send a card this time.”

“Nothing?” Lara Jean asks, quietly. She looks sad.

Peter shrugs his shoulders – because that’s the last thing he needs now, LJ being sad. “It’s not a big deal. He didn’t send anything for Christmas, either. Probably won’t for my birthday.”

Lara Jean bites her lip, then says, “When _is_ your birthday?”

“May 23rd.”

“Well, then, we will need to do something about that,” she says, practically, now with a big smile on her face. “And for the record, mine is June 18th.”

He lets go of her, and pulls out his phone – types it in his calendar. “Noted,” he says, with exaggerated care.

Lara Jean giggles, then pulls him to the door. He’d noticed she doesn’t even type his down. He’s not surprised. She always remembers the little things.

-tbc-


	3. Photos

Dad hesitates when Lara Jean asks to go. She knows it looks bad, on paper – all of them, unsupervised, for the first weekend of spring break? Yeah. No way. No amount of helpful prodding from Trina can sway him – but he does offer one concession: she can go down for the day, if she’s back by curfew.

It’ll have to do.

“I know it sucks, 6 hours of nonstop driving for you,” she says, when she broaches the subject over FaceTime. Two hours at the crack of dawn to drive to Cannon Beach. Two hours in the dark of night to drive her back to Greenport. And then two hours back to Greg’s parents’ summer home to continue his weekend fun without her. “Maybe you should go without me?”

Peter grumbles that it won’t be the same, and she’s disappointed – and he’s disappointed – and they say their goodnights but don’t really say anything about it through that last of week school. They both have that paper for English due on Friday, and Peter has another trig quiz.

So it’s a complete surprise, that first Saturday morning, when she gets a FaceTime before the sky starts to glimmer in gold, and it’s Peter. “Bring your swimsuit,” he jokes, “you’ve got ten minutes!”

“Peter!” she exclaims, but he’s already hung up, and she checks the window and yeah, he’s in his Jeep at the curb.

She wishes he gave her more notice. She would’ve packed some better snacks. Instead, she grabs a canvas tote and practically shoves the contents of the pantry inside. Trying to decide what to wear is _impossible_ and she knows from past experience it’ll actually be freezing at the beach this time of the year – _hello_ , _northwest Pacific Ocean_ – but she throws on her favorite yellow and pink bikini – the one with ruffles – her comfiest sweatshirt, jeans, and flip-flops. A beach towel – her ragged copy of _Romeo & Juliet_, and her journal – and one hasty Post-It note to Dad later and she’s out the door, shoving her sunglasses up into her hairline as a makeshift headband.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” she says, as she hops inside.

He gives her a look – _Come on, of course I would_ – and she grins and leans over and gives him a big, smacking kiss on the cheek. She wipes at the lipgloss stain, fingers sticky.

They meet up at Mollie’s house, before all of them drive down in their separate cars together. Lara Jean notes with a private sort of glee that Chris is here, although she’s driving with Lucas and Trevor is riding with Greg and Keisha.

She puts her feet up on the dashboard and watches the world go by, chattering aimlessly with Peter between pages of her book – feeds him pretzels and hands him his drink when he asks, giggles when he tries to bite her hand. In the mirrors she can see the sun rising behind them as they drive west, purples just shifting to oranges and golds – it’s like daybreak is chasing them, and she likes that image and pulls out her journal and scribbles it down, for safekeeping.

“You think they’ll make up?” she asks, when she finishes Act III, and takes his hand, resting their intertwined fingers on her thigh.

Peter glances at her book, smirking. “Romes and Jules? Uh, Covey, hate to break it to you – ”

Lara Jean swats the paperback against his upper arm, sets it aside. “I meant Trevor and Chris.”

“We’re no-ot me-eddling,” he says, sing-song.

“I kno-ow,” she says, sing-song back. “I’m just asking a que-estion.”

Peter shrugs, checking his mirrors. They’re almost there, according to Waze. “We’ll see,” he says, non-committal. “But I asked him – he’s game.”

“Yay!” she exclaims, clapping.

He glares at her – a warning. Lara Jean just beams.

The beach is actually quite grey today – not many people are out and about. The boys brought a Frisbee and are tossing it around, chasing it like maniacs and trying to do stunts. It’s like watching big, overgrown puppies. Some of the girls sit and watch and laugh – Mollie brought nail polish and Keisha brought magazines, and Pammy brought donuts and boxes of coffee – but then Chris joins the fray, ready to rumble. Lara Jean recognizes her _I wanna prove something_ face and smirks at Trevor’s somewhat awed expression.

After a while she takes a walk by the water by herself, chewing on her donut and ambling listlessly towards Haystack Rock – rolls her jeans up to her knees, stuffs her toes deep into the soppy sand. It is _freezing_ , ice cold down to the marrow of her bones, but she stays put – searches for the horizon. On the other side of that blurred, grey line there’s a whole other world. Something like that would have scared her out of her wits just a few months ago. Now, it’s not so frightening.

She tosses her last bit of donut to a circling seagull – it lands on the sand, and is promptly snatched up and carried away.

“Hey!” Warm arms go around her from behind – Lara Jean squeals when Peter pushes his nose into the crook of her neck.

“Cold!”

“Sorry!” he laughs. “Can I warm my hands?

“Don’t you dare!” she exclaims, but he does it anyway, shoving his cold hands up under her sweatshirt and resting them on her stomach. Lara Jean shrieks, trying to twist away, but he holds fast, and she gives up quickly, because she actually likes his hands there.

“What are you doing so far away?” he mumbles, into the top of her head.

“Was going to the rock,” she says, nodding towards the sea stack, moody and dark against the greyness of the ocean and the sky. “You can go exploring at low tide.”

“Yeah?”

She nods sagely – starts to walk away. He lets go of her, grabs onto the last three fingers of her hand – they hook pinkies. “Yeah.”

It’s a treasure trove, left in the tidal pools under the shadow of Haystack Rock – colorful sea stars and urchins, little clams and hermit crabs – weather-smoothened pebbles, in all shapes and shades. She tip-toes around the rocks, bends and cranes her neck to see. The sun has started to come out, causing everything to glitter and shine. _I should’ve brought Kitty,_ she thinks, watching a hermit crab scuttle away, shell smooth and pink and pretty. But then she feels Peter’s hand, on the small of her back, again underneath her sweatshirt, and she thinks – _Well . . . maybe not._

She stands on a rock, to get a better look at the top of sea stack – searches for puffins and gulls. She thinks she can spot them nesting, but it’s so far away. When she turns, she puts her arms around Peter’s shoulders – she’s almost as tall as him now, actually – and leans her forehead against his. “Thanks for bringing me,” she murmurs.

His hands aren’t cold anymore – they’re both underneath her sweatshirt now, resting on her waist. “Don’t be stupid,” he mumbles back, and then she kisses him, because that’s all there’s left to do – to stand in a tidal pool, under the sunlight, growing warmer and warmer.

It would be quite easy to stay there forever – listen to the faint rumble of the waves, and get lost in the way his fingers go up and down her spine, and her sides – how soft his mouth is, against hers. But then a toddler shrieks somewhere and Lara Jean stops, embarrassed, at the sight of an approaching family – and Peter coughs and takes her hand, and they start the long walk back to their friends. But halfway there, she glances at him – catches him smiling at her, gentle and quiet, and she gets the sudden impulse – a sudden need of want – and she pulls her hand away and slides it underneath his polo shirt, to rest on the small of his back. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t even laugh, not even a little bit – but he notches her against his side and kisses the top of her head.

By the time they get back, everybody wants to eat, so they pack up to find a restaurant. There’s a little garden area to wait for seating, and as they goof off, Lara Jean takes pictures – the boys trying to see who can do the most impressive jump off the back garden wall – Lucas giving Chris a piggy-back ride, then Chris giving _Lucas_ a piggy ride, before they promptly fall over in a heap of shrieking laughter – the girls giggling and posing in exaggerated model shots. After Keisha obligingly takes one of Chris and Lucas giving her a gigantic bear hug, Lara Jean tries to take a picture of Peter, sitting on the bench – he makes a pouty-lipped face at her, brow cocked. “No, don’t,” she pleads – she hates it when he does that in photos, it’s not _him_. “Please?”

“Fine,” he says, and smiles normally – the kind of smile he gives, just for her, soft and sweet, and her heart flutters. “Come here,” he says, and takes her phone, and she goes to stand behind him – wraps her arms around his neck.

When he gives her phone back to her, she asks, “Do you want it?”

“You betcha.”

She looks at the selfie and smiles, then sends it on its way to Peter’s phone. “This one is going in a frame in my bedroom,” she says, hugging him close.

“Yeah?” he laughs, twisting to kiss her on the cheek.

“Yeah,” she says, quietly. All of them are. She never wants to forget this day.

*

It’s not dark yet – they have plenty of time until her curfew. But Lara Jean wants to start the drive back now – she doesn’t like the idea of Peter driving four hours round trip in the middle of the night just to bring her home. She gives hugs and waves good-byes and they set off. This time the sun isn’t chasing them, but setting behind them – the sky darkening bit by sleepy bit as they head east, towards home.

Oh. She likes that, too.

She scribbles it down in her journal, and then puts her feet up on the dashboard and pulls out _Romeo & Juliet _again.

“You have fun?” Peter asks.

She reaches for her hand without looking up. “Loads.”

He squeezes.

By the time they get home, it is dark. Peter walks her to the door but after she kisses him goodnight, he doesn’t leave – just follows her inside the house.

“Peter?” she asks.

“What?”

“Aren’t you going back?”

Peter gives her a look. “Nah.”

“Peter.” She says, feeling bad. “You don’t have to. You were supposed to go for the weekend!”

“Yeah, so I re-evaluated,” he says, closing the door behind her. “Figured I wouldn’t be having as much fun without you.”

“Well, hello there,” Dad calls from the kitchen, chopping vegetables. “How was the beach?”

“Great, Dr. Covey,” Peter calls.

“Hey, Peter!” Kitty says, setting the table. “Are you staying for dinner?”

Lara Jean smiles up at him.

“Sure am, kid,” Peter says, taking the utensils from her to help her. “You on for some movies after?”

*

She prints the pictures next time she and Dad do a grocery run to Citymaxx – puts them all in frames. The one of Chris and Lucas – the one of them hugging her – the one of just Peter, smiling just for her – the one of them together.

The hug picture goes on her desk, and Peter goes on her other nightstand. She can’t decide what to do with the piggy-back shot of her best friends, and the one of her and Peter together, so she makes the decision to swap them out every so often. This week, the piggy-back shot will be on her bookshelf. She wants to go to sleep tonight looking at him . . . at the both of them.

And the next Sunday, before school starts up again, and they’re trying desperately to catch up on their spring break homework, she’s not that surprised to find that same picture of them together, tacked up on the wall above his headboard amongst the lacrosse posters – the last thing he sees before he goes to bed.

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haystack Rock is a sea stack on Cannon Beach in Oregon. If you ever have the opportunity to go, you should. It's where they filmed Goonies (I have never watched, but it's still a cool place to visit).
> 
> The photos mentioned are ones that appear in the movie. I noticed that at the beginning of the third movie, Chris giving Lucas a piggyback are on the bedside table along with a solo picture of Peter, but in a couple of scenes later, it's the solo picture of Peter and that picture of Lara Jean hugging Peter from behind. Guess LJ likes to re-decorate sometimes! ;) It looks like that same photo is tacked up on Peter's bedroom wall too but it's hard to see. :)
> 
> ETA: yikes when i originally posted this my format was all funky? sorry. fixed it, i think!


	4. Pride

“Everybody did a good job with their writing pieces,” Mrs. Samuelson says, as she hands back everybody’s papers. When she gets to Lara Jean, she hands hers back with a smile. “Some more than others.”

Lara Jean’s eyes widen at the grade. A +

_Oh, wow._ She flips eagerly to the last page, where Mrs. Samuelson traditionally leaves comments. She’s a little confused to see the red marker’s simple message: _See me after class._

Hm.

The bell rings. In front of her, Peter gets up and threads his arms through his backpack but she says, “Just a sec,” and goes up to Mrs. Samuelson’s desk while he lingers outside by the door.

“Hi, you, uh, wanted to see me?” she asks, quietly, as the students file out.

“Lara Jean,” Mrs. Samuelson says, sitting down at the desk. “That was really one of the best pieces I’ve ever read from a student. You should be very proud.”

Her face turns red, and she beams happily. “T-thanks,” she stammers, so pleased she could jump up and punch the air.

“The Portland Community College is having a writing competition for high school students,” Mrs. Samuelson says, handing her a print-out of a flyer. “I want you to encourage to submit that. It’s $300 for first place, and your story will be printed in the _Portland Tribune._ ”

Lara Jean stares at her, numbly taking the flyer. “I – that’s – okay,” she says, chewing on her lip. “Thanks, Mrs. Samuelson.”

“Hey, what’s up?” Peter asks. They have to book it – she’s got history and he’s got trig, and they’re at opposite ends of the hall on the other side of the school.

“Nothing,” she says, quickly, but before she can jam her paper and the flyer into her backpack, he grabs both. “Peter!”

“Hey, this is great,” Peter says, looking at her paper, as she struggles to snatch it back from him. Damn him for being so tall. “Ooops! Sorry,” he says, bumping into someone on their way. “What’s the big deal? You were so worried about it.”

They get to the junction – the crowd is thinning out, because the bell is about to ring. Peter’s in the east wing, Lara Jean in the west. “It’s not a big deal, can I have that back?” she asks, red-faced and nervous.

Peter reads the flyer. “Yo, Samuelson wants you to enter?” he asks. Lara Jean nods, scratching at her temple. “So, do it! That’s three hundred bucks. One hundred if you win second. You can treat me to pancakes at the diner.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Lara Jean murmurs. The crowd is rapidly dissipating now – her voice is starting to echo. “Peter, can I have those back please? We’re gonna be late.”

“Why?” Peter asks, flipping over the front cover of her paper. Panic begins to rise in a hot, blooming flush through her neck, to her face. “You get to be in the newspaper too, that seems like a pretty big deal to – ”

“Because I don’t want anybody else reading it! Not you, not my dad, not my sisters, and definitely not the entire state of Oregon!” The bell rings, and Lara Jean snatches both the flyer and her paper from Peter’s grasp. The pages crumple, and he stares at her. Lara Jean sighs, and says, contrite, “Sorry.”

“Yeah, okay,” he says, quiet. “Hey, I didn’t mean to push.”

“I know,” she says, heading backwards down the hall to her class. He does the same, towards his, thumbs looped in his backpack straps. “It’s . . . not a big . . . sorry I yelled.” She gives up – runs towards him and stands on tiptoe to give him a quick, apologetic kiss, and then turns and bolts towards history.

*

When Peter doesn’t have practice or a shift at the store, most of the time these days he either takes Lara Jean to the coffee shop in town and they finish their homework there before he takes her home. This time though, there’s a big trig quiz the next day, and he _needs_ to get at least an A – on it if he wants to solidify that B he promised Mom in exchange for LJ’s locket. It’s too distracting at the coffee shop, because half the junior class is always there, so he takes Covey back to his house where it’s quieter. In the back of his mind, he knows Mom won’t do anything as bad as take the necklace _back_ , but he also doesn’t want her turning around and saying he now owes her the money.

Plus – when push comes to shove, he is kind of proud he managed to get his grade up to that B.

But when he pulls up to the house, he can’t park in the driveway – someone’s car is there, blocking Mom’s. “Huh,” he muses, parking instead on the street.

“Whose car is that?” Covey asks, as she unbuckles her safety belt.

“No clue.” Mom is supposed to be at the store today, too. They walk up to the house and he pushes the front door open. “Hey, Mom?”

“Peter!” Mom says, and he sees she’s sitting on one of the side chairs in the living room, and two men are on the couch, dressed in sports jackets and slacks. They all rise. “Honey, this is Mr. Francis and Mr. Clarkson.” Mom’s grin is nervous, and she wrings her hands. “They’re from the University of Oregon lacrosse department.”

Oh.

Okay. Wow.

“Young man, we’ve heard great things about you,” Mr . . . Clarkson? Peter thinks, he hadn’t really paid attention to who was who – says, shaking his hand. “Ah, and this must be the girlfriend,” he says, turning to shake her hand as well.

Lara Jean’s face turns bright red, as she splutters, nervously, “Y-yeah, I guess I am.”

They all sit down and Mr. Clarkson or Mr. Francis make small-talk with Mom because Peter doesn’t actually know what to _say_ and Lara Jean is also frozen but smiling, big and proud, and then Mr. Clarkson is saying things about what kind of GPA he’d be expected to keep in order to play, his likelihood of starting as a freshman . . . about commitment dates.

“Well,” Mom says, “he’s had offers from Stanford and USC.”

Peter shoots a surprised glance at Mom, because – that’s not true. She ended up calling Mr. Molina back but he’d just answered her very general questions and never confirmed that he would come out to see him play again – and USC was talking to Coach about him but they definitely haven’t offered anything. They have never seen him play.

Mr. Clarkson and Mr. Francis don’t seem surprised though, and they chatter on about grades and scholarship money and honestly it’s all over Peter’s head at this point, he’s too stunned to do anything but nod whenever Mom nods. But then all of a sudden they’re standing up to go and shaking everyone’s hands good-bye, and Mr. Clarkson says to him, “We’d be thrilled to have you aboard, Pete,” and Peter almost corrects him, but bites his tongue.

As soon as Mom sees them out the door, she turns and around and beams at him. “Well, there it is!” she says, ecstatic. She grabs his face and kisses his cheek. “I’m so _proud_ , Petey. That went very well.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess,” Peter says. He feels like someone slapped him upside the head and he’s still swinging from it. He glances at Lara Jean, who’s hugging herself, practically bouncing up and down in excitement.

Owen, from the top of the stairs, calls, “Can I come down now?”

“Yes, O!” Mom calls, and he thunders down the steps eagerly. “I think this calls for take-out tonight. Lara Jean, do you want to stay for dinner?”

“Y-yes. Sure!” Covey says, happily. He knows why she’s so thrilled at the invitation – Mom’s been kind of indifferent to her ever since they got back together. Which is stupid, and he needs to talk to Mom about it, but he’s got more pressing matters at hand.

“Thai Thai Thai!” Owen insists. “I want satay skewers.”

“Man of the hour chooses,” Mom says, waltzing into the kitchen. “Let me grab some menus.”

Peter follows her. “Mom, why did you lie like that?” he says, as she searches the junk drawer for the take-out menus.

“Lie?” Mom grabs a bunch of paper menus and throws them on the center island, like a deck of cards. “I didn’t lie.”

“Stanford and USC haven’t given me any kind of offer! Why did you say that they did?”

“Well, Oregon doesn’t know that. And they should know that other schools are looking at you. They’re only offering you half a scholarship. There’s no reason they shouldn’t be given an incentive to offer you more.” Mom picks up a menu from Benito’s. “Mexican?”

Peter sighs and shakes his head, and plucks the menu from her hand. He _is_ in the mood for a burrito.

*

Frustrated, Peter crosses out the entire page and throws his pencil down. It bounces off his notebook and lands on the floor, rolling towards Lara Jean, who’s lying on her stomach on some couch cushions, scribbling madly in her own notebook.

He lies back down on the couch, presses his forehead to his textbook and groans. After a moment, he hears Lara Jean get up and sit next to him – then feels her fingers work her way through his hair.

“Why is it A and not D?” he mumbles.

“Move your face.” He sits up and she picks up his notebook, peering at his handwriting as he rubs the back of his neck. He watches her pucker her lips to the side of her mouth, puzzling over the equations, until she finds it. “There. You miswrote it. You used sine instead of cosine.”

“Ahhh!” He pulls her towards him and gives her several smacking kisses on the cheek as she giggles. “I _love_ having a smarty-pants girlfriend!”

She twists away, adjusting her headband. “Yeah, well _I_ love having a boyfriend who’s so good at lacrosse. I can’t believe you’re getting recruited. To Oregon and USC and _Stanford_ . . . and wow, USC and Stanford is so far – ”

Peter shrugs, uncomfortable. “They haven’t. My mom lied. She thinks it’s better to get Oregon _thinking_ that Stanford and USC gave me offers, so they can bump up theirs.” He has to hand it to her – years of owning a small business haggling over prices has made Mom an all-star at bargaining.

“So, what – you don’t want to go?”

“To Oregon? I mean, sure, I guess.” At her questioning look, he shrugs again. “I dunno, it just seems – so far off, I guess?” Now that he says it outloud . . . USC and Stanford _are_ far – physically far. He’s not even sure where they even are, in California. He’s never even _been_ to California. All of a sudden, those logistics – which he hadn’t even been thinking of – start crowding into his brain, at the forefront, and he shakes his head – runs his hand through his hair. It _is_ too far – too far ahead – to be thinking of that kind of shit. “Like – we just got back from spring break. I haven’t even taken the SATs yet. Just let me ace this trig quiz.” Then he deepens his voice and says, jokingly, “I live my life a quarter mile at a time.”

Lara Jean rolls her eyes. “Okay, Vin Diesel, please stop quoting _The Fast & the Furious_.”

“Whaaaat, it’s a classic.” She snorts. “I’m just happy you forgave me for _Tokyo Drift._ ” She’d been beside herself when Han died, but quickly perked up when they got to the fourth movie and the character miraculously showed up again. Peter had to spend a good five minutes explaining _Tokyo Drift_ occurred in the future and that the subsequent movies would actually be in the past and it had made her head spin like a top, but now she’s back to enjoying the movies and has now coaxed him into other Jane Austen films. (Willoughby? Dickhead.)

“I know it’s far off, but you should be proud of yourself,” she says. “Your mom and Owen are. I am.” He raises his eyebrows at her. “What?”

“The hypocrisy!” he chides, jokingly, pushing her shoulder with his. “Your paper?” It’s been a couple of weeks, and as far as he knows, the deadline to that competition has passed.

“That’s – that’s not the same thing,” she says. Her face is turning red again, and she’s jiggling her leg, nervous.

“Okay. Then why . . .?”

She sighs, then leans into him. He puts his arm up and around her shoulders and she grabs his hand, playing with his fingers mindlessly. “What did you write about?”

Peter shrugs. “How to play lacrosse.” It had gotten him a solid B. “She said, ‘Good instructions, very informative. Could use a bit more imagination.’” He chuckles.

Lara Jean clicks her tongue against her teeth. “Well, remember the assignment? We could choose expositional, like ‘how to play lacrosse,’ or creative fiction. And I chose creative fiction.”

“Yeah. So?”

“So . . . ” She huffs out an impatient breath, like she’s trying to figure out what to say. “It’s not like something I can just – _share_. You know? It’s . . . it’s private. It came from here.” She takes her free hand and puts it to her chest, which makes him still. “I don’t even show my sisters what I write. If she were alive, I don’t even think I could show my mom.”

Peter quiets, considering. “Well . . . you showed Mrs. Samuelson.”

“Yeah, but that’s different – she’s a teacher, she doesn’t – like, she’s a _stranger_. She barely knows me. If she judges me, I won’t really care, you know? So, that competition?” She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t mind entering it. I mean – three hundred bucks? Do you know how much crafting paper I could buy?” He laughs at her eagerness and refrains from telling her she probably has a problem when it comes to Washi tape and ribbons. “But if it gets in the newspaper . . . I don’t mind all those strangers reading it. They don’t know me. But that means Dad will read it . . . my sisters . . . you. You’ll _all_ see . . .”

He’s so confused. “I don’t get it. You think we’d judge you?” He thinks about the letter she wrote, to him. How it had made him feel reading that. “You’re a great writer.”

“When did you ever read my writing?”

“Besides your letter? That first book report.” They had to write them for Samuelson’s class, and she asked the best ones to present. It was back when they were fake dating. He’d been impressed – he’d even written a note for her about it. One of the first times his notes started getting . . . realer, for lack of better word. “And it was great. Didn’t judge you then.”

“Okay, first of all, it was listening, not reading. But it was still just a report. And I dunno if _judge_ is the right word.” She swallows. “But . . . maybe my family would, if they read it.”

“Geez, Covey. What is it?” She doesn’t look at him. “Porn? Is it porn?” he cracks, and she laughs, which makes him tease harder, “Oh my god, it _is_ porn, you’re a player _and_ a little freak – ” She laughs harder, and bites his hand playfully. “Ow! Girl, get off my – teeth, LJ, _teeth!_ ”

“It’s not porn, you dummy,” she giggles, into his neck, after they’ve calmed down. She’s curled in his lap, and he puts his hand up her shirt, lets the tips of his fingers trail up and down the length of her side. He can barely feel gooseflesh there – the steady rhythm of her breath beneath his palm. Ever since spring break at the beach, they’ve been doing this more often, which he likes. But on occasion, she’ll do something that’ll totally throw him for a loop – like when she kisses his ear, and though it’s the lightest of touches, he nearly jumps at the puff of hot breath down his throat.

He shakes his head, tries to get back on track. “So . . . what is it? You don’t have to show me, just . . . ” She quiets – tenses. Doesn’t say anything.

And – it sucks. It sucks, because there it is again – that little sting of doubt that still sometimes pops up, creeping up his spine. Is she holding out on him? Keeping things closed off, locked up?

But then he thinks – okay, _he_ didn’t exactly say anything about the recruiters. And it wasn’t like he was purposely keeping things from her. So maybe he should just chill out and wait a second.

She doesn’t reply for the longest time – he just taps a soft, idle rhythm on her side while she fiddles with the bracelets on her wrists. Then finally, she mumbles, “Um . . . it was about my mom. She, uh – she once told me this story of how it was like, to move to the US when she was really little and didn’t know the language. So I wrote this thing about her, except I didn’t write it like it was _her_ obviously, but like . . . you know, how it must’ve felt, and sounded, and . . . and I dunno, _I_ liked it, but I don’t want anybody I know reading it.” She pauses – and then nuzzles his neck, sending his stomach into a low, deep flip-flop.

“It’s just – it’s _different_ when someone you love is reading something you put so much of your heart into.”

He thinks about the letter she wrote him – how panicked she was, when she realized they had all been sent out. He thinks about little middle school Covey, furiously scribbling away at _his_ letter. It’s a cute image, but then he remembers what it was like for _him_ back then – that little shocking thrill when she turned around in her chair and smiled at him in thanks for helping her out. Like, what would he even say, and how to say it, and to write it down and then have someone read it . . .

It’s not too different from when he’d write those notes – half-agonizing if she’d see them, read them . . . half-hoping she wouldn’t, because then she’d actually _see_ every little bit of him . . .

Yeah . . . no, he thinks he gets it, now.

So he kisses her temple, and says, “Okay.”

“Really?” she says, relieved, looking up at him.

“Yeah, really. ‘Course.” He kisses the tip of her nose, and she scrunches it up, tickled. “’Sides. I like being part of . . . y’know.”

She quirks her brow. “Part of what?”

“You know.” He gestures with his free hand. “The crew. The Covey Crew.” He laughs. Because that’s it, isn’t it? She wasn’t keeping him from something – drawing walls around herself, a safety net. Not at all.

She brought him into it.

Her smile is closed-lipped and soft, full of sweet affection. “Yeah,” she says, quiet. She trails her fingers against his jaw and he closes his eyes. She kisses the corner of his mouth, breathes in – pulls back and rests her forehead against his, nose-to-nose.

“I was just proud of you, is all,” he murmurs.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s nice.” He can feel her pull back again, the tip of her finger tracing his eyelashes. “And I’m proud of you too.”

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> full discretion - i am totally winging it when it comes to college lacrosse recruiting practices, rules, and regs. lol. 
> 
> this chapter brought to you by the fact we keep hearing about lj being a great writer, or having interest in writing, and the movies never actually showing it beyond her letters. :/


	5. Meet the Parents

“Hey! Lara Jean!”

Lara Jean turns from examining the carton of strawberries to see Owen running up to her. “Hey!” she says, always a little thrown when he emerges out of his shell – it comes and goes in spurts, she’s realized. “Is Peter here – I thought he had an away game?”

“He does, I’m here with – ”

“Hi, Lara Jean,” Mrs. Kavinsky says, wheeling her shopping cart into view. Lara Jean smiles nervously. Ever since the University of Oregon came calling, she’s _almost_ back to being friendly and welcoming towards her again. Lara Jean just wants to keep it that way. “Oh, strawberries. Great idea. Making anything special?”

“No, just had a craving,” Lara Jean replies, as Mrs. Kavinsky inspects the neat rows of cartons. “My little sister loves them.”

“Well, then, she has great taste because _I_ think we’re about to get a bunch ourselves,” she says, brightly.

“LJ? Sweetie – ”

“Dad,” Lara Jean says, jumping. _Oh, god._ Trina has pushed her shopping cart into the aisle, and Dad and Kitty are behind her. She resists pulling out her phone to text Peter because he’s probably on the field, and besides, even if he isn’t, what can he possibly do to help in a time like this? “Um, Mrs. Kavinsky – this is my dad – Mister – Doctor, uh – ”

“Dan Covey, hi,” Dad says, setting down the boxes of pasta he’d been carrying into the cart and extending his hand.

“Ellen Kavinsky,” Mrs. Kavinsky says. “I was going to introduce myself at the Math Bowl.” That makes Lara Jean jump _again_ , because – wait – _what_? Kitty’s Math Bowl was right before Christmas break.

“Right! Right, at the middle school,” Dad says. “Sorry we didn’t get a chance to meet, it was a bit crazy.” Lara Jean can only stare. Their parents were thinking of introducing themselves to each other back when they were first dating?

(Fake dating. But whatever, _they_ didn’t know that! And they still _don’t_ know that.)

“Yeah, who would’ve thought sixth grade math competition would be so cutthroat?” Mrs. Kavinsky says. She turns her smile to Trina and extends her hand. “I guess you must be ‘Mrs. Rothschild.’” She says it like she’s imitating Peter’s voice, when he deepens it to make it seem like he’s being serious and respectful – which makes all three adults laugh and Lara Jean cringe internally.

“I prefer Trina,” Trina says, shaking her hand, as Lara Jean blushes. She hadn’t realized Peter talked about her family to his mother. But then again . . . Dad knows about Peter’s family. Does Dad talk about _them_ to Trina? What if he says something embarrassing, like how he knows Peter isn’t on speaking terms with _his_ father? In her panic spiral, she eyes Kitty for help, but she’s too busy chattering with Owen – something about the sixth grade science fair –

“Oh, we’d love to,” Dad says, suddenly, so suddenly Lara Jean jumps again.

“Great! Well, I guess we better get going, if I’m prepping a meal for seven now,” Mrs. Kavinsky says.

“In that case I’ll bring the wine,” Trina says, and the three of them laugh, _again,_ in that weird way adults laugh when they’re being overly friendly, overly quickly, Lara Jean notices resentfully.

She notices this resentfully, because she’s just realized Mrs. Kavinsky has invited all of them to dinner at her house tonight.

*

“I am _so. Sorry,_ ” Lara Jean says, fretfully, over FaceTime, around her toothbrush. “I don’t know how it happened. But suddenly someone was mentioning lasagna and the other was mentioning wine and – and – I should wear something cute, right? But, like, respectfully cute.”

“You always wear something cute, and unfortunately, very respectful,” Peter says, trying to clean his room because he’d come home from the away game to find his mother in a fit at the state of his unmade bed.

“Perv.”

“Look, don’t stress,” he says, taking every scrap of dirty laundry and kicking it into his closet. Dr. Covey and Mrs. Rothschild aren’t going to look in his closet, for Christ’s sake. “It’s all good. This – this, was, like, inevitable, right?”

Lara Jean rinses her mouth out. Her face disappears from view while she spits. “Inevitable?”

“Well, yeah. Right?” Isn’t it? Like . . . they’ve been dating a while now. If you count the fake dating part, but ignore the brief winter break break-up, and the mess with Gen and John, it’s been almost 8 months. And they _have_ to count the fake dating part, because her dad and his mom don’t know any different.

Lara Jean blinks, stupefied, into the camera. “Well, yeah – I guess. Right.” She pauses, and he can almost see the wheels turning. “I mean – did she meet Gen’s – ”

“ _Covey._ ”

“No, I don’t mean it like that!” she says, quickly. “I’m just curious! I’ve never done this before!”

Peter sighs and shakes his head, rolling his eyes. “My mom met Gen’s mom once. Didn’t even meet her dad. And it was like, in passing. Not anything like this.”

“So . . . you _are_ worried,” Lara Jean says, slowly.

“What? No. Nah. _No_ ,” he repeats, at Covey’s skeptical look. “Look, I’ll see you soon. Stop freaking out, okay?”

“Okay,” she grumbles, and hangs up.

Left alone in a semi-clean bedroom, Peter flips down on the bed and stares up at the ceiling.

Silently freaking the fuck out.

“Peter! Come help me with the salad.”

He groans out, “Okay!” and launches off the bed and jogs down the stairs. Mom is going haywire in the kitchen, tramping back and forth from the stove to the sink. He takes over washing the lettuce and tomatoes while she goes back to the pasta sauce, muttering something about it not tasting right. As she digs around the spice rack, he says, taking out the chopping board, “Mom? You’re gonna be nice, right?”

“Nice? What are you talking about? I’m always nice. Needs more oregano I think . . .”

“Mom.” He sets down the tomatoes and turns to face her. “I know you don’t like Lara Jean. At least, not as much as you used to.”

Mom stops sprinkling the pot of pasta sauce with oregano. “What on earth are you talking about?” she asks, stunned, turning around. “I like Lara Jean.”

Peter leans against the counter, stares up at the ceiling. “Well . . . you haven’t been exactly the same, lately, around her. Ever since . . .”

Mom lowers the stove to a simmer and then walks over to him. “Peter,” she says, seriously, crossing her arms and looking up at him. “I was just a little worried.” He sighs, because, okay, _yeah,_ but – “I still am. You’re both young.” He frowns – there it is again. So what? She and Dad got married really young, and had him really young, and they’re _definitely_ not Mom and Dad. “I don’t want to see you hurt.”

That makes him protest. “Lara Jean would never hurt – ”

Mom raises her eyebrows at him, challenging. He pauses, remembering what it was like when she had broken up with him. “Okay,” he grumbles, rubbing the back of his neck, awkward and sullen. “But uh – Mom. That was kinda on me, too.”

“Ah. Well . . . you failed to mention _that._ ” Mom chews on the inside of her cheek, then smiles, rueful. “All the more reason to be a little bit careful.” She pats his shoulder. “I will do better around LJ, okay? Now, come on and figure out what the heck I did wrong with this sauce.”

He obliges, but doesn’t tell her that was the problem in the first place – trying to be a little bit careful with each other. Mom wouldn’t understand. But at least he’s got some reassurance that tonight’s dinner won’t go completely sideways.

*

“Eeeeeellllllljaaaaaaaaaay, Kitty, we are late!”

“Coming!” Lara Jean says, frantic, as Kitty finishes the French braid on her left side. “Go, do the other!” she hisses, and takes the incomplete tail and starts twisting the strands into plaits, while Kitty starts French braiding the other side of her head. “Shit shit shit.”

“This wouldn’t have happened if you just decided to do this earlier,” Kitty grouses around the comb clenched in her teeth.

“I know,” Lara Jean wails, miserable, as she ties the braid off and grabs bobby pins and hairspray. She starts spritzing the left side of her head, sending a cloud of scented stickiness into the air. Kitty coughs. “Oh, sorry!”

“Just – ugh – calm down! I’m almost there.” Kitty tosses the comb onto the vanity and snatches the bobby pins from her. It takes some yanking, but she finally manages to tuck the braided tails into a bun at the nape of Lara Jean’s neck. She stands up and checks herself in the mirror – pink button-down dress with puffy capped sleeves, almost like something Elizabeth Bennet would wear, except the skirt trails to her calves. Cute and unfortunately respectful, as Peter would say.

“Lara Jean and Katherine Song Covey, the Covey train is leaving the station.”

“COMING!!!!” both girls shout.

Dad and Trina are waiting by the door, Dad holding a casserole dish and Trina two bottles of wine. “Don’t forget the cake,” he calls, as he heads out the door with Kitty.

“Right!” Lara Jean dashes to the kitchen and grabs the cake container. She ushers Trina outside so she can lock the door behind her.

“So, ready?” Trina asks, as Lara Jean shoulders her purse.

“Yes,” Lara Jean says, hesitantly.

Trina stops. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says.

“Do you want me to not go?” Trina asks, concerned. “Because – you know – if _you_ think it’s too soon for me, I don’t have to go.”

“Why would it be too soon for you?” Lara Jean asks, confused.

“Well,” Trina says, hedging. “I mean – you know, I’ve only been seeing your dad for a few months. And believe me, I’ve enjoyed every moment of it,” she adds, chucking Lara Jean lightly under the chin, as she smiles. “But if you’re not comfortable with me coming and meeting the mom of your boyfriend – then I’m fine with that, and I’m sure your father would be too.”

“Thanks Trina,” she replies, so warmed over by this sentiment that she wants to throw herself at her and hug her tight – if it weren’t for the wine bottles and the triple fudge chocolate cake in the way. “But I _do_ want you to be here. I just – ” She stops, pauses, trying to root out why she’s so nervous. “I just want it to go well,” she says, finally. “Peter’s mom – she’s been different with me, ever since we got back together. It’s gotten better, but I don’t want to mess things up again, you know? She’s his _mom._ And you know, he may be my first boyfriend, but I really lo – ” She stops, swallows, and says again, quietly, “I just want it to go well.”

Trina smiles tenderly at her, and puts a comforting hand on her shoulder as they walk down to the car. “Well, then,” she says, simply, “let’s make sure it goes well.”

*

Peter thinks it’s going well. Mom broke out the good dinner plates. The adults are already onto their second bottle of wine and it’s not even dessert yet. They’re talking about work stuff – Mom’s telling them about the worst customer she’s ever had, after Mrs. Rothschild shared something about her worst Pilates client. Kitty and Owen are complaining about their science fair projects. Lara Jean is just concentrating on carefully eating her lasagna. Like the-cutting-it-into-itty-bitty-pieces-before-putting-it-into-her-mouth-and-wiping-her lips-with-her-napkin-after-every-bite kind of careful.

“You good?” he whispers, right as she takes a sip of water.

She nearly spits it out. “Perfect,” she says, nodding frantically, eyes darting around to make sure no one saw her.

Right. “Your hair hair looks nice,” he says, to change the subject. And because it does. It’s tied back all twisty at the nape of her neck. “You don’t do them often.”

She pats her hair, blushing happily. “Thanks. It’s because French braids are hard. Kitty did them.”

He’s about to say something more, but then Dr. Covey says, “So, Peter – Lara Jean says you got into University of Oregon already! Congratulations.”

“Uh, yeah,” he nods, helping himself to some more garlic bread. “Thanks. It’s not official, yet – I haven’t committed.”

“Well, don’t sell yourself short, that’s quite an achievement,” he says, smiling. Lara Jean nudges him, grinning. He grins back. To Mom, Dr. Covey says, “You must be very proud.”

“I am,” Mom beams. “But Peter tells me LJ is a great student. Do you have any idea where you’d like to go?”

Now it’s his turn to concentrate on his lasagna – trying to puzzle why his stomach has suddenly dipped. It’s not like he _hasn’t_ thought of it, before. Well – ok – maybe he really hasn’t. Just those fleeting thoughts, never voiced out loud, that go in and out and are gone just as quickly . . . like – what if.

“No,” Lara Jean is saying, smiling bashfully. “Not really. I do know I, uh, want to study English lit.”

“So it has to have a great library,” Trina declares. “Be careful it’s not one of those massive ones. You’ll get lost in the stacks, and you’re so tiny we’ll never find you again.” They all laugh, and then Owen and Kitty start complaining about having dessert, and that weird little moment, unnoticed by everyone except him, flits away again – except this time, it leaves an echo.

-tbc-


	6. A Promise

“So . . . are you together together?” Lara Jean asks, leaning her arms over the cafeteria table, eyes gleaming with hopeful conspiratorial glee.

Chris just continues applying her lipgloss, concentrating on her compact mirror. “We are . . . hanging out.” Lara Jean claps her hands happily. “Oh, stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Acting like a cute little anime character!” Chris says, snapping her compact shut.

“But Chris!” Lara Jean wails, grabbing her hands. “We can go on double dates, and oooo, it’s Memorial Day Weekend tomorrow, and it’s Peter’s birthday – ”

Chris snatches her hands away. “What? Nuh-uh. I don’t do double dates, I don’t do Memorial Day Weekends, and I don’t do birthdays.”

“What _do_ you do?” Lucas asks, chomping on a French fry. “Hang out in a room all alone complaining about how much fun it is not having fun?”

Chris blinks at him. “Precisely,” she sniffs, and flounces off.

Lara Jean turns to Lucas, batting her eyelashes at him.

“Whuh?” Lucas asks, gulping down his Coke. “Oh, no no no, LJ. Sorry, no. Ty and I are super new. I’m not jinxing it.”

“Please?” Lara Jean begs, clutching his arm. “You guys _are_ super new but also super cute and I’m really happy for you because you deserve it and it’ll be super fun – ”

“And sorry, but as much as I love you, and Kavinsky, we are not the double dating type,” Lucas says, patting her hair. “Besides, Ty’s not exactly . . . ‘out’ out yet. So . . .”

“Ah, okay.” Lara Jean pulls back, mollified. “Not that I don’t understand but – why doesn’t anyone want to double date with us? Do we smell? Like, are we mean?”

“More like obnoxious,” Lucas says, not without affection. At her offended look, he says quickly, “Like obnoxiously cute, girl. We lesser mortals do not need to be blinded by the sun that is Lara Jean Covey and Peter Kavinsky.” Lara Jean laughs, flushing. “No, in all seriousness, you just lucked out having a BFF who just hates having fun and another BFF who just needs to keep things on the DL for a while. That’s all.”

The bell rings. Lara Jean sighs and kisses him on the cheek before heading off to class. Whatever. Peter’s mom is having a barbecue this weekend – Peter’s birthday is this Saturday, and Monday is Memorial Day, so it’s going to be a big birthday/holiday bash. He’s basically invited all of his lax friends since it’s the end of the season too. Lara Jean just has to decide what cake to make him. She could go with his favorite salted caramel cupcakes, but maybe he’ll want something different since it _is_ Memorial Day too, so . . .

“Hey, what cake do you want?” she asks, when she finally catches him before he heads off to his very last practice of the season and she goes back home.

“Mmm, surprise me,” he says, stooping to give her a kiss. But she pulls away. “Hey!”

“Well, your mom asked that I make that triple fudge chocolate cake again,” she says, sticking out one finger. Then she holds up a second. “Owen wants Oreo stuffed cupcakes.” Then she holds up a third. “And _you_ say ‘surprise me,’ but clearly there are competing forces at work – ”

Peter laughs, and jumps the chain-linked fence to get onto the field. _Show off,_ she thinks, with wry affection. He could’ve easily gone around the side. “So make both.” He starts walking backwards to where his teammates are gathering on the field. “And a third option. It _is_ my birthday!”

Lara Jean laughs and heads back to her car. Before she sets off, though, she texts him, _You are the WORST_ , even though he won’t read it until after practice.

*

Peter emerges from the locker rooms shaking his hair, still damp with sweat, from his eyes. He just wants to go home and shower and get to Covey’s, but stops in his tracks when he passes Coach’s office. His mother is sitting in there, talking to Coach and another man.

“Mom?”

Coach waves him in. “Kavinsky, come in,” he says, pointing to the third empty seat. Mom turns in her chair, with th biggest grin on her face.

And that’s when Peter sees the man is Mr. Molina, from Stanford.

“Sorry I couldn’t make it to any more of the games,” he says, shaking Peter’s hand. Peter takes the far left chair, Mom a buffer in between them. All of a sudden he wishes he showered. “It’s been nuts, traveling up and down the West Coast. They made me go all the way to Michigan too, can you imagine? It’s still freezing there.” They laugh, and Peter forces a limp smile because . . .

Because this is Stanford, and – and he’s not sure if he’s ready.

*

“I should enroll you in that SAT prep course,” Mom frets, passing him the carton of sweet and sour chicken. “I know Mr. Molina said not to worry too much but I just want to cover all your bases – and I _know_ you pulled up your trig grade, but you’re so close to that A in History, maybe I should get you a tutor for that – ”

Peter sets down the carton, digging through the bits of chicken with his fork listlessly. “Well, Oregon said my grades were fine,” he says, quietly.

“Yes, but that’s Oregon. This is _Stanford._ ” Mom nibbles on some lo mein, shakes her head. “And they offered you just as much as Oregon.”

Peter swallows. “We can always go back to Oregon. Tell them – you know – I’ll come, but we need more – ”

“Peter.” Mom puts down her fork. “Don’t you want to go to Stanford?”

Peter glances at Owen, who’s also stopped eating. “It’s far,” he says, shrugging. “Who’s gonna be around for you and Owen?”

“Oh honey,” Mom says, and her face crumples a bit, and _shit_ that’s not what he meant to do – but thankfully she gathers herself and says, “Don’t worry about us. This is an _incredible_ opportunity. I’m so proud of you.”

“It is kinda far,” Owen mumbles, playing with his food.

Peter pushes his plate forward, what little appetite he had left gone. “I dunno,” he says. “It’s full of smart kids. I’m not – _like_ that.” He sighs, and says, “Who knows if I’ll even get to start? I dunno. I dunno if I . . . _see_ myself there, you know?”

“You’ll find your way. You always do,” Mom says, kindly. She takes his hand and squeezes it. “Sweetheart. Don’t be too hard on yourself – and don’t be afraid to test yourself. You can do it.” She lets go and pushes his plate back towards him and turns to ruffle Owen’s hair.

“Don’t look at me,” he says, sipping his water. “I’m years away from college.”

*

It’s late. Despite the fact it’s officially Memorial Day weekend and it’s his birthday tomorrow, he stays in – lies in bed and tries to get comfortable, to go to sleep. But whenever he turns on his side, he keeps opening his eyes to see Covey’s Valentine’s Day card to him on the nightstand – and just beyond that, the photo of them together after the movies. He can’t even remember when they took that – which movie they went to watch. Just that she looked so pretty that day. Like every day.

He gets up – throws on a sweatshirt. Creeps downstairs because even though he doesn’t have a curfew he doesn’t want Mom asking him where he’s going right now. It’s about an hour away from LJ’s curfew, but he just needs to see her right now.

Except when he gets to the house, she’s frantic, and red-faced, and close to tears. “What the hell is going on?” he exclaims, when he walks in. Something smells burnt, the living room coffee table is covered in scraps of paper, glitter, and ribbons – so is the floor, actually, now that he notices – and Jesus Christ, the kitchen island looks like the fridge vomited on top of it.

“You’re ruining your surprise!” she says, and then she grumbles, with her fists pressed against her eyes, that she was trying to do a variety pack of cupcakes – triple fudge, Oreo-stuffed, _and_ salted caramel, with a few things she had never tried before – not to mention, finish off his birthday card – and then . . . “I ended up burning the second batch, and that put me off the frosting, and then I realized I wasn’t making _any_ progress on your card – and it’s a mess, and I _ruin everything_.” And then she gives up, and sobs a little, and collapses against his chest.

“Okay, okay, okay – just – it’s not a big deal,” he mumbles, into her hair. They shuffle onto the couch and she curls against him and he eyes the mess on the coffee table. He picks up the card – shaped like a duck, with fake green and yellow feathers rather haphazardly glued onto the wing – and then he realizes what she was trying to do the University of Oregon Ducks theme, and it hits him, with aching clarity –

He wasn’t just afraid of not seeing himself there, at Stanford.

He clears his throat, looks around. “So, clearly – there’s only one solution,” he says.

“What’s that?”

“You need a bigger kitchen. A gigantic-ass mother of a kitchen island. Baking on one side, crafts on the other. So you’re not going back and forth and burning the house down.”

Lara Jean snorts, and wipes at her eyes with the heel of her hand as she pushes off his chest. “Yeah? Those cost like, a million dollars.”

He brushes some hair off her damp cheeks. “Guess we better win the lottery,” he murmurs, grazing this thumb along her bottom lip.

He watches her eyebrows twitch together – just a half-second, the way her lips part, ever-so-slightly, in confusion – before her face flushes bright pink and she ducks her head. It’s suddenly hard to swallow past his heart in his throat, but he manages . . . barely.

“Um – Covey . . . I hate to say this, but it turns out the card was a waste of time.”

Her head lifts. “Huh?”

He nods slowly. “I – uh – that recruiter? From Stanford? He came to our practice today.” Lara Jean’s eyes widen. “And, uh, Coach called Mom in and – ” Her eyes widen even more, a huge grin starts to brighten her face. “ – and so they offered me a lacrosse scholarship – ”

“Oh my god ohmygodohmygod!” Lara Jean launches herself at him, arms around his neck. He laughs as she kisses his cheeks repeatedly. “That’s amazing! Oh my god! I can’t believe it! How come you didn’t – ”

“Shh! What about – ?” He cranes his neck to look at the darkened staircase.

Lara Jean says, still not letting go, “Kitty’s got a cold, she’s passed out from NyQuil. Dad has an emergency C-section. Peter, I can’t _believe_ this, congratulations!” She kisses him this time on the mouth, hard, and he ends up falling backwards on the couch, bringing her on top of him, with a huge _whompf!_ They clack teeth, rather painfully, which only makes them crack up even more, even as they grab their respective jaws.

After they finally calm down, Peter rolls her on to her back, and he snuggles down, half-on top of her, mindful of his weight. She plays with his hair. Her locket has become twisted and he rights it gently, lays it flat against her collarbone, where it’s supposed to go.

“LJ?”

“Yeah?”

“Do . . . do _you_ know where you want to go? To college, I mean.”

Her fingers still. “I – well . . .” Her voice is quiet, wavering. “I haven’t even started applying yet. I don’t think I _can_ start applying until we’re seniors.”

“Which is in September.” He shifts – leans on his elbow, to hover over her. She brushes some hair off his forehead – but she’s not really looking at him. “It’s just that . . . Stanford’s really far.”

She nods, once. “Yeah.” She bites her lip, then ventures, carefully, “I just – never thought . . . ” Her voice trails off, uncertain.

He presses his lips together, then takes a deep breath, to calm down. “I figured. It’s . . . ” he looks away, trying to puzzle out how to say it, and then – fuck it, decides to actually say it – “It’s just I really can’t imagine ever being away from you.”

She stares up at him. Blinks slowly, like everything is in slow-motion. He’s about to say, _You know what, forget it, forget I said anything,_ but then she whispers, so softly he has to lean closer to hear her, until they’re practically breathing each other’s air – “I can’t ever, either.”

*

She’s wondering how to tell him, how to ask. He’s got her pressed into the couch cushions, mouthing a damp trail against the line of her jaw – her hands are up his shirt, because he’d tossed his sweatshirt off somewhere, some time ago. The fingers of his free hand are splayed across her ribcage, underneath her tank top.

But they’re also just _staying_ there, and it’s lovely, it feels very nice – and sometimes his hand will twitch upwards, like he’s _thinking_ about it and can’t help himself – and that makes her smile, that makes her feel warm all over in a different kind of way, knowing that he’s being careful.

And the thing is – she knows she’s still not ready yet. Her little sister is upstairs with a cold. It’s almost curfew. Her father will be back home soon. And he just told her – and _she_ just told him . . . And . . . it’s a little _much,_ that’s the thing.

She’s still just not ready yet.

But she’s also . . . curious . . . and she keeps remembering – not just _now_ , before, all the times before, just this time she’s remembering things a little more acutely . . . That time after that party, in his car . . . that time at the beach . . . and yes, the hot tub – the way his hands felt on her sides and back, underneath the hot bubbly water, how her thighs rested on top of his – the way he’d _looked_ at her when she got out . . . and all the other times they’ve been alone, and he’d kiss her, and she felt like if she’d just push up against him a little more, or if he’d press her into the pillows a little harder . . .

There’s ifs, and whens, and thens . . . and she’s not ready _now_ , but she’s ready for a little more . . .

So she seeks out his mouth again – kisses him so hard she gets breathless very quickly – and runs her hand down his side – over his thigh – she can feel his entire body twitch against her, his fingers on his ribcage tighten – and then she sweeps her hand back up, slowly, shakily . . . and flexes it over his butt.

There’s half a second she wonders who gasped into whose mouth, but then she doesn’t care because his own hand trails upwards, and closes over her breast, molding gently.

And she can’t help it – she grins against his mouth, almost giggly. He grins back. “What?” he murmurs.

“Nothing,” she says, and this time does giggle. “Just – was wondering – ”

“When I’d get the hint?”

“Yeah. You’re not the only dense one.” They both snicker. But then she sobers and she says, quietly, “I’m not – you know – ready for the other stuff – but, um – this is . . .”

“Nice?” His hand stills, but he keeps it there.

“Yeah.” She nods, and kisses the tip of his nose. “Nice enough . . . for now.”

He snickers again, and leans in for another kiss. Between kisses, as he moves his thumb against her – making her sigh, making her hot, making her arch – he murmurs, just as quiet, just as serious, “Well – you let me know when you you wanna . . . do anything . . . more.”

“Yeah,” she mumbles back, and she doesn’t know if she’s agreeing to letting him know when she _is_ ready – for just more, or _it . . ._ or if she’s getting lost in the feel of his hands on her . . . or if it’s all of that, and then some.

*

He helps her clean up, and is gone with fifteen minutes to spare. She lies in bed and scrolls through her phone and finds the mascot – a tree? Huh. Okay – of Stanford, and decides she’ll get up early tomorrow and try that. She can make vanilla cupcakes with green frosting, and arrange it in a shape of an evergreen tree. Handy, delicious, and then everybody at the party can grab some easily. It might look a _little_ Christmas-y, but she’s pressed for time.

After his birthday party – after they spend the entire holiday weekend hanging out, and yes, she finally does manage to get Chris and Trevor to come with them to the movies at least in “not a double-date” but a _group_ thing – she opens her locker on Tuesday morning, only to find a square piece of paper fluttering into her face.

The second she gets home, she pins Peter’s note to the corkboard above her dresser.

*

_One day, when we win the lottery, I will buy you the biggest kitchen so you can bake as much as you want AND still have space for crafting at the same time._

_-tbc-_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter's note is tacked onto LJ's corkboard. If you zoom in during the scene where she decides to give him her hatbox full of memories, you can see it. :)


End file.
